The Stargazers
by mattmetzger
Summary: AU. Jim isn't going to stay in Iowa forever. He's got his eyes on the stars - and the aliens that come from them. And between the guy who threw up on him in a bar, and the Vulcan who seems to think he's a particularly odd experiment, he just might do it.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes: This is a long-term AU project. I do have dodgy Internet access, so bear with me on the update frequencies.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek and I make no profit from this work.**

* * *

**The Stargazers**

**One:**

The shuttleport at Riverside was only any decent size because of the shipyards that had been built to put Federation ships together. Before that - and Jim even remembered that before - there had been a joke of a 'port. One gate, one shuttle every six hours, to either New York, or to the International Station at Seattle.

Now, you got one every three hours to and from San Francisco, carrying all sorts of Starfleet personnel.

So, y'know, Jim _had _seen aliens before. Of course he had. Half the Engineering Corps working for Starfleet at the moment seemed to be alien. And wherever large numbers of people regularly gathered, so did the Ferengi, plying their trade.

He'd just...well, he'd never seen a Vulcan before. Let alone four of them at once.

Okay, yeah, it was sad. Here he was, working in a shuttleport that mainly catered to Starfleet staff and Academy cadets on the engineering, medical and technical tracks, and he'd never seen a Vulcan before. Hell, Vulcans practically _made _the Federation.

But then, Vulcans didn't come to Riverside. As far as Jim knew, if they visited Earth at all, they stayed in San Francisco.

He was also pretty sure he was the only one staring. Nobody else was giving the Vulcan group a second glance. And they didn't need to: a guide in an immaculate Lieutenant Commander's uniform was taking them (at a very sedate pace) through the 'port buildings, and a dark-skinned woman in cadet reds was rattling translation every now and again.

But Jim had never seen a Vulcan.

So he stared.

He'd thought - obviously stupidly - that they'd be...well. More _alien_. Okay, so he knew most species in, involved with, and around the Federation were humanoid, but come _on_. The Ferengi - hello? Ears, anyone? The Cardassians - Jim was _unhappy _that he'd seen one of them. Ick. The Orions - awesome species, but they were _green_. The Klingons - well, they barely passed for humanoid anyway.

But the Vulcans...

They were all, invariably, tall and standing ramrod straight. They were all male, with identical bowl haircuts, and completely stone-like expressions. Three of them wore long, heavy-looking dark robes, but that didn't quite brush the floor. The fourth was wearing more human clothing, but also lacking in any colour, flair or expression at all. The most alien thing about any of them, as far as Jim could see, was the stern eyebrows and the pointy ears.

It was kind of...disappointing.

Jim didn't know what he'd expected. He'd seen pictures of Vulcans. His Mom had told him about Vulcans. She even had a photo, somewhere, of her and his dad (way before they were even _dating_) with a Vulcan 'acquaintance' of his father's. (She never used 'friend', and Jim didn't know why.) But...faced with the reality of the Vulcan appearance, and Jim felt kind of...let down.

And then one of them looked at him.

Jim wasn't even doing anything. He just worked at the bar - one of three that adorned the inside of the shuttleport. And at ten in the morning, there were no customers, so he was just lounging and cleaning the top.

But one of them must have realised he was staring, and was staring right back.

Only...

Jim wasn't an easily intimidated kind of guy. Too much cocky swagger for that. And usually, he just got aggressive when other men tried staring him down.

But the Vulcan...wasn't so much staring at him as..._analysing _him. Like he was trying to figure something out.

And then, just as suddenly, the analysis was deemed complete, and he turned his head back toward Lieutenant Commander Whoever-The-Fuck.

Jim kept staring.

That Vulcan was obviously younger than the rest. Jim knew shit about Vulcan lifespans or aging processes, but if they were a group of humans, it was comparable to the twenty-year-old grandson following his grandfather and his grandfather's war veteran buddies around. He was _obviously _younger. And he was the one wearing remotely human clothing. And...Jim didn't know whether it made a damn bit of difference, but he was _paler _than the other Vulcans too. Not like, a white guy versus a black guy paler, but...a white guy versus a Chinese guy, paler. Distinct enough to look slightly out of place.

And he was the only one not giving the guide his complete attention at all times.

Jim wondered whether he was the Vulcan version of a cadet. It would explain the age gap...and the lack of attention span (in Vulcan terms. Jim knew enough to know they were kind of freaky intelligent and dedicated like that.)

He watched them get led away to the exit for the shipyards, and wondered what they were doing here.

And more to the point, why he cared.

* * *

The house was empty when Jim got home.

It usually was - either that, or Mom had gone to bed without waiting up for him at all. Sometimes he didn't mind. Most times, he did. Most times, he felt like his Mom was still seeing her husband when she looked at him. And after the whole fiasco that was her relationship with Frank...well. Him and his Mom just hadn't been the same.

Sam, Jim's older brother, called it abuse. Jim didn't quite agree, but he sure as hell knew it wasn't average. _Frank _was abuse. Mom was...Mom. Still in mourning for her husband, and kind of...maybe wishing she could have exchanged the baby for the man. Lose Jim, instead of George.

Sometimes Jim couldn't blame her for that. And most times he could.

Fact was, Mom couldn't bear to look at him. Mom looked at him and saw George. And Jim _hated _that. Hated that he was meant to be a man he never knew. Hated that he would always be the disappointment because he _wasn't _George Kirk. He couldn't be. And he didn't want to be, either. He wanted to be _him_, wanted to be allowed to live his own life.

But he'd get home, and see his Mom looking at pictures of her dead husband again, and he'd feel...guilty.

Jim hated that feeling.

Like he should be doing better by his Mom when he didn't know how. Like he should be bending over backwards for her. Like he should be making her life easier. Like he should be a better son. Like he should be emulating his father. Like...like...like...

Like he shouldn't be unhappy to be here with her, when his father couldn't be.

Jim wasn't the perfect kid, or even all that great at meaningful, serious relationships. But he sure as hell knew that that wasn't _fair_.

So when the house was dark and empty, and the stray cat meowed at him from the fence cos Mom hadn't shooed it away from the house for the night, Jim was resigned to the fact...but still pretty damn bitter about it.

He flicked on the news feed, then flicked it off again when nothing interesting appeared in the first thirty seconds. He could, he supposed, go out for a drink, but would it be a waste of hard-earned cash? And Jim was _working _for his money, for the first time in forever. He wasn't going to stay in Iowa his whole life and become a drunk asshole like Frank. Whether Mom liked it or not, Jim was going places.

Like, right now, the bar.

* * *

The bar was semi-full, mostly with kids Jim's age in cadet reds.

Jim didn't like cadets. They were, on the whole, very snotty and uptight people, with an education as wide as Jim's attitude problem, and fucking potato farms on their shoulders about being second in that midterm instead of first in the class. Sure, a female cadet always looked sexy (the combination of the little skirt and the physical exercise they all had to do at the Academy made for lovely legs on view all the time) and sometimes, when drunk enough, would be happy to be pulled and taken back to Jim's for some more.

But most of the time? Nope.

Still, there clearly wasn't a massive year outing to the shipyards. That usually happened at the end of their semesters, and Jim was pretty sure they were in the middle of one. From the little drinking going on, and the fervent discussion of (surprise, surprise) the presence of Vulcans at the shipyards, Jim guessed that they were engineers or medics.

"Usual, Jimmy?"

"Sure," he nodded at the barman, and the guy on the stool next to him glared at him blearily.

"You're not a cadet," he said.

"Nope."

"Good," he said. "Don't sign up. They'll send you into space in a bucket and then expect you to act fine with the fact that _one freaking hull crack_, and your brain's scrambled eggs all over the ozone layer."

He was obviously drunk, and his thick southern drawl made it awkward to understand him. Jim just nodded vaguely and wondered why his drink wasn't getting here faster so he could leave.

"Hey," the guy said.

"What?"

"I may throw up on you."

"Erm..." Jim said, and waved to the bartender to hurry up.

Then the southerner puked on his sneakers.

Awesome.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes: This is a long-term AU project. I do have dodgy Internet access, so bear with me on the update frequencies.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek and I make no profit from this work.**

* * *

**The Stargazers**

**Two:**

The southerner was called McCoy. Jim _thought _he said his first name was Leonard, but his accent and his boozing were too strong to tell.

In any case, he stopped by the bar the next day.

"Knew I'd seen you before," he said, leaning on the counter like a regular. "Been through this 'port a couple of times."

"Why?" Jim asked. "The engineering students, sure, but..."

McCoy shrugged. "I'm a doctor. We gotta learn all about our fancy new sickbays, so they bring us out here to try 'em out."

Jim shrugged. Whatever.

"Sorry about pukin' on you last night," McCoy said. "I don't usually do that. Least, not without a shuttle to help."

"You don't like flying?"

"Hell no. Asking for death, that is."

"But...you signed up to the service," Jim said, eyeing the cadet reds obviously.

"Blame the ex-wife," McCoy grunted. "Took the whole damn planet in the divorce. Got nothing left but my bones."

Jim thought about snickering, but didn't. "Jim Kirk," he said, instead, and McCoy raised an eyebrow.

"As in, George Kirk's kid?"

Jim scowled.

"Don't you give me that look, kid," McCoy snapped waspishly. "Damn son of a hero, that's what you are, and you're propping up a bar in the Riverside shuttleport? What kind of damn fool plan is that?"

Jim's scowl deepened.

"Wipe that off your face," McCoy said sternly, and Jim found it gone before he even knew he'd responsed. "Better. Now look here, the Kirk kid can do fucking better than bartending in the ass end of Iowa - and _that's _an ass end."

"Maybe I like it."

"And maybe I'm Vulcan," McCoy grunted.

"You saw the Vulcans here yesterday?" Jim perked up a little at that.

"Sure," McCoy looked surprised. "Was the Vulcan ambassador to Earth getting the grand tour of that new ship they're going for. The flagship."

"The Ambassador?"

"Uh-huh," McCoy nodded. "Sarek, son of someone else beginning with S. Damn naming conventions. He's been Ambassador for decades."

"Decades? None of them were _that _old," Jim said. "I mean, okay, _old_, sure, but not _ancient_."

McCoy laughed. "You don't know shit about Vulcans, do you, Jim?"

"Never seen one before," Jim admitted. Somehow, it didn't feel weird admitting that to McCoy.

"Out here, you wouldn't," McCoy shrugged. "They don't like it cold. Iowa's too damn cold for a Vulcan, most times of the year. Anyway, it's not like they're a new bunch we have to impress, is it?"

Jim conceded that one.

"Anyway, Vulcans live longer than us. Old for them is _dead _for us. They can go quite happily until they're two hundred years old, no problem."

Jim whistled. "Jesus. So what, the younger one? He could have been, like, fifty?"

"Could have been," McCoy considered. "Don't think he is, though. I think that's Sarek's son. Probably not much older than you, kid. Barely outta diapers, in Vulcan terms."

Jim snickered.

"Not that Vulcans probably have diapers," McCoy added, and Jim outright laughed.

"You don't like Vulcans?"

"Don't dislike 'em, either. Just don't know any. And that logic thing...yeah. Kinda creepy," McCoy rolled his eyes and checked the chronometer. "I gotta go, Jim. Labs. See you round."

"Sure, Bones. See you."

* * *

When Jim came back from his lunch break, there was a Vulcan seated at the bar.

A Vulcan. At a bar.

Jim knew _that _much to know he was looking at something pretty damn weird.

Angie, his one and only colleague, looked pretty freaked too.

"He just wants his Vulcan spiced tea, and sits there reading," she murmured to Jim when he arrived. "It's kind of...weird."

"Well, then I'll handle him," Jim said, with a grin. "He's Vulcan. They don't give hassle, right?"

She hummed, but still looked uncertain. Jim was getting the impression that most people didn't like Vulcans, generally. He didn't really get _why_. He'd seen _much _weirder looking aliens, that was for damn sure. Cardassians. Ick, no thank you.

And, Jim was interested to note, it was the younger Vulcan.

Up close, maybe there was something alien about Vulcans after all. Instead of the usual pink or tan tint to most human skin, this guy's skin was tinted green. Pale green, but green all the same. And those eyebrows weren't just stern, but completely upswept into a sharp V. His hands had fingers that were _really _fucking long - like, abnormally long.

And...he didn't seem to be breathing.

Which kind of freaked Jim out.

"Hey," he said. "You okay?"

The Vulcan looked up sharply. Anyone else would have called it startled, but Jim had noticed the same sharp head movement the other day when he'd been watched. Maybe it was a Vulcan.

"I am well," came the flat response. And wow, monotonous had _nothing _on this guy. "May I ask the reason for your enquiry?"

Jim flushed. "Er. You didn't seem to be...breathing."

Yep, he sounded like a moron when he said _that_.

The Vulcan blinked, then said: "Vulcans have a larger lung capacity than Humans. We may appear, therefore, to breath less deeply. I assure you, I am breathing perfectly well."

"Yeah, well, I can see that now," Jim grumbled. "Look, I just don't know much about Vulcans."

No reaction.

"I've never met one before."

"I see," the Vulcan said flatly. "If you do not venture beyond this shuttleport, then that is likely. Vulcans would find little reason to come to this part of North America without the shipyards."

"Guess so," Jim said. "So what are you doing out here anyway?"

The Vulcan paused, as if he was unsure whether or not to answer. Finally, he said: "I am accompanying my father in his ambassadorial duties."

"Sarek? So you're Sarek's kid?"

The Vulcan's lips twitched. God knew what that meant for Vulcans. But his voice was still completely flat when he replied, "Indeed."

"Cool," Jim said. "I'm Jim Kirk."

The Vulcan hesitated a moment longer, but just as he opened his mouth to response, a voice called in what Jim presumed was Vulcan. The rest of the group - along with their guide and translator from yesterday - had returned, and one of the older Vulcans (Sarek, maybe?) had called to the younger one.

"I must leave," the Vulcan stood, bowed his head, and turned sharply on his heel.

Jesus, even his _movements _were methodical.

Jim noticed however, that the cup of spiced tea had been drained before his departure.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes: The Progression Series took over. Sorry! This story is set in 2253, five years before the events of the film. This makes Spock twenty-three, and Jim twenty (according to the Star Trek Memory Alpha, anyway).**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek and I make no profit from this work.**

* * *

**The Stargazers**

**Three:**

Sarek of Vulcan, the Kirk computer in the family kitchen was quick to inform Jim, was indeed a man of influence. He was descended directly from Surak, the founder of pretty much all Vulcan culture, and had been the Ambassador to Earth for some thirty-two years.

But more interesting to Jim was the equally public (and thus highly unusual for a Vulcan) knowledge of his immediate family.

His wife was apparently human - a woman called Amanda Grayson, and they had both married in 2230, and then produced a son. Probably, Jim surmised, the young Vulcan from the bar. There had been a lot of public interest in his conception and birth, as the only (so far) hybrid between Vulcans and Humans.

Humans had bred with other species before, including the Romulans. And Romulans and Vulcans probably _could _breed, even if Jim couldn't recall off the top of his head whether they _had_. But Vulcans and Humans hadn't - until 2230, apparently. And, equally apparently, quite successfully. Which made the Vulcan in Jim's bar only twenty-three.

Hell, McCoy hadn't been kidding. If they could live to over two hundred, then a twenty-three-year-old Vulcan was _damn _young.

Jim almost sniggered. He was young, sure, but nobody with a face _that _severe had the _attitude _of a twenty-three-year-old.

Still, it was interesting. Jim had never met a Vulcan before, and now, he supposed, he still hadn't. He'd met a half-Vulcan. And if he was any guess, he knew which half had prevailed in _that _family household.

The front door clattered.

"Hey, Jimmy," his mother called from the hall, and apparently in the kitchen doorway, tidying her blonde hair from the wind outside. "What you doing?"

"Some idle research," he shrugged, switching off the console and rising. "Want anything?"

* * *

"Hey, kid."

The advantage of making buddies with a Southern doctor was that, by the time you turned to meet the call, you knew who it was. Jim didn't know any other southerners who'd call him kid in the bar. (Unless they all did it, but Jim was pretty sure they didn't).

"I'm headed back to San Francisco tomorrow morning," McCoy said. "You got a minute?"

"Sure."

"Listen, you didn't really answer me the other day," the doctor continued. He was, Jim was beginning to work out, waspish _all _the time. "Why are you here propping up some bar?"

Jim frowned. "You make it sound like it's my life's aim."

"So why you still here? You're, what, twenty-two?"

Jim snorted. "You try getting out of Iowa with nothing else to go to."

"You? Kid, you're..."

"If you say 'Kirk's kid', I'm going to come out from around this bar, and nobody's going to like it."

McCoy snorted, completely unruffled by the threat. Jim eyed him curiously. If he was a new medical cadet - they all had to be doctors beforehand - then he'd not have had the combat training yet. But if he was a sponsored medical student (he looked too old, but you never knew) then he would, and Jim was smart enough to know (when sober) that anyone in Starfleet cadet reds with a single combat training session under their belt could take him in a fight.

Nevermind a southerner who was older than him, and knew _medically _where to hurt him.

Nah, screw it. Let the man talk.

"But you are, whether you like it or not," McCoy persisted. "Surely you've got better shit to do than this?"

"Maybe I like it," Jim challenged.

"Nice try, kid, but you just kinda implied you didn't," the doctor replied flatly. "So you tell me. Why waste your life in Iowa?"

"What do you suggest I do otherwise?" Jim snapped. He liked the doctor - gruff, impatient and a little rough round the edges: he was Jim's kind of a guy. You got a lot of guys like that in Iowa, but they were usually twenty years older than Jim and found his thing with the stars to be weird and unnatural.

McCoy shrugged. "Hell, kid. Get the fuck out of Iowa. That's what I'd do."

* * *

Jim arrived at work just in time to hear the final boarding call for the shuttle to San Francisco. He wistfully thought of the doctor, and how lucky he was to be going (back!) to the Academy. How lucky he was not to be stuck in Iowa.

And then he was jolted out of his wistful attitude by the figure at the bar. Spiced tea and all.

"You again!" he exclaimed, and received one Vulcan eyebrow raised in...hell, he didn't know what. Something or other. "Aren't you going back to San Francisco on that shuttle?"

"The Committee have not finished their discussions at the shipyards," came the stoic reply.

"Yeah? So why aren't you with them?"

That eyebrow again. Jim was willing to bet that all Vulcans didn't do that, because that wasn't an emotionless response. Maybe the Vulcan was mocking him. Or wondering if the silly human _had _a brain.

"I am not a member of the Committee."

"But you're here."

"I am observing my father's work."

"Oh, I see," Jim smirked. "Training you up, is he?"

The eyebrow. "Indeed."

"To do what? Ambassadorial stuff?"

"Yes."

"Not Starfleet, then?"

Both eyebrows. Now _that _was a look of surprise. Maybe this guy got his facial expressions from his Mom.

"No. Upon my return to Vulcan, I intend to commit myself to studying at the Vulcan Science Academy."

Yeah, Jim had no fucking clue what that was meant to be. But he did get the impression that he'd just been blown off - and Jim Kirk didn't like being blown off.

"What's wrong with Starfleet?"

"I did not imply any fault with the organisation."

"Didn't need to," Jim challenged. "You even looked surprised I'd mentioned it. No Vulcans in Starfleet?"

"As a matter of fact, no," and _that _surprised Jim. You'd think a race that pretty much _set up _the Federation would play a pretty big role in its military organisation.

So he said as much.

"Therein is the issue. It is a military organisation; Vulcans are a peaceful people."

"Sure," Jim said. "But if you want peace, then you must prepare for war."

An eyebrow again. "I find it...intriguing that an Iowan bartender possesses a passing knowledge of Western Earth philosophy. Much less the logical processes to apply it to our current conversation...and yet is unaware of the basic tenets of Vulcan philosophy."

"Yeah, well, I'm from Earth," Jim shrugged. "And you're not. Even if you _did _hear somewhere that Iowans are dumb hicks. Where did you hear that, by the way?"

The Vulcan's mouth twitched. "I believe the exact phrase used by our translator was: 'dumb hicks who only have sex with farm animals.'"

Maybe he should have been offended. Hell, Jim was pretty sure he _should _have been offended. But, frankly, that phrase coming from that Vulcan was just _too _funny. He cracked, bending in half like the guy had kicked him in the gut - or balls - and _howled_. A better delivery could not _possibly _have happened - especially since the guy was now watching him like he was nothing more unusual, interesting or noisy than your average white wall.

"Jim Kirk," he said, finally regaining his senses and holding out his hand.

The Vulcan raised a hand, spreading the middle and ring fingers to create a V, and said: "Spock, son of Sarek. You are not a cadet, Mr. Kirk?"

"Nope, and it's _Jim_," he insisted. "Nope, I'm stuck here in Iowa."

"What prevents your relocation?"

"What makes you think I want to...?"

"Your use of the term 'stuck'," Spock replied promptly. "I have noticed that humans tend to use language to subtly express opinions on a matter, rather than being forthright about troubling issues."

Jim bristled. "You callin' me a liar?"

"Merely evasive," Spock replied calmly.

"Uh-huh," Jim scowled. "And I bet you, the ambassador's son, gets everything he wants. It's not like that for all of us."

Spock's eyebrow rose once more, and he drained his cup of tea.

"It is not like for myself, either, Mr. Kirk," he replied coolly, and was gone before Jim could formulate a reply.

Well.

Fuck you too, buddy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes: The Progression Series took over. Sorry! This story is set in 2253, five years before the events of the film. This makes Spock twenty-three, and Jim twenty (according to the Star Trek Memory Alpha, anyway).**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek and I make no profit from this work.**

* * *

**The Stargazers**

**Four:**

Jim sent a communication to McCoy that night. It wasn't hard to find a guy's comm address when he was a doctor _and _in Starfleet Academy. And he was the only Jim knew to ask - nobody in Iowa would know.

_What can you tell me on Spock, son of Sarek of Vulcan?_

Roughly four minutes later, his communicator beeped. It seemed that McCoy had figured out that it was him, even without a name, and the reply was as acidic as the man in person.

_Hello to you too, kid. And only what's public. I've never met the guy._

Jim smirked and replied, _What you get in the Academy must be more than I get here._

_Well_, came the response, _why don't you try asking him?_

_You're shitting me, right? He's Vulcan. Even I know they don't freaking talk._

_Well played_, came the slightly mocking but slightly serious response. _What do you want to know?_

_What he does. Career-wise. I saw him today, had a chat. He kind of implied that he's not too happy with his life._

The pause was longer, now. Either McCoy was weighing him up, or was looking up the information. Jim had to fidget a bit before it came back. _He's an assistant ambassador to the Vulcan Policy Committee to the Federation, subset Earth. I don't know what that means, but that's what he is. And if he implied something, either he's human enough that he wouldn't give a rat's ass you asked, or you're reading too much into a Vulcan. I'd go for second._

Jim snickered to himself.

_Why are you so interested in him anyway?_

Jim shrugged. _Just am_.

_Yeah, well, don't get in deep. Vulcans don't make friends, kid. And even if they did - he ain't going to be in Iowa for long._

Surprisingly, Jim...didn't much like either of those sentences. And he wasn't entirely sure which one was worse.

* * *

Jim arrived at work early. Three shuttles were due to arrive that evening from San Francisco, and another from Tokyo. The Tokyo flight would be coming from the language school out there, and the cadets would have to hang around for a couple of hours until one of the San Francisco shuttles could take them the rest of the way.

Which meant a busy bar tonight.

Arriving early, Jim jogged through the (for now) relatively empty terminal, his shoes squeaking slightly on the tiled floor. He slowed and stopped, however, when he caught sight of Spock and one of the other Vulcans conversing in low tones by one of the gates. Sliding around the corner, he hovered by the entrance to the men's toilets and listened.

Hell, he didn't even know why, but he wanted to know what Spock was up to.

"It is imperative that you take appropriate notice of the politics of such happenings," the older Vulcan was saying. "While your interest in the physics of warp travel is commendable, it is not relevant to our work here."

"On the contrary, the warp mechanics that the flagship is equipped with would affect the numbers and distances of any Starfleet missions. With such an increased potential for discovering new worlds beyond the current travelling ability of Starfleet-issue ships, Vulcan would be well-advised to keep an active interest in vessel capabilities."

"We are not involved in Starfleet," the older Vulcan said crisply. "Our involvement is purely Federation diplomacy. Your distraction is...irrelevant, and therefore unfounded and meaningless."

Jim had the distinct feeling that he was hearing the Vulcan equivalent of a scolding, and he bristled on Spock's behalf. Who the hell was that guy yelling at him? Okay, not yelling, but...yeah, it was probably _like _yelling.

There was silence, and then after a moment, Spock appeared at the corner, and Jim knew that he'd been caught. He grinned guiltily, and when the other Vulcan didn't appear, said: "Busted, huh?"

"Explain."

"Um," Jim shrugged. "I dunno. Just wanted to know what you were up to. Curious, I guess. It's a fault of mine."

"Curiosity is rarely a fault in itself," Spock replied flatly. "Furthermore, my enquiry pertained to the term 'busted' rather than your purpose in hiding here. I have observed humans long enough to be aware of their tendency to eavesdrop."

Jim shrugged and flushed a little. "Busted means caught."

"Ah."

"So who was that grumpy bastard?" he asked - and only then thought to peer around the corner and check that the guy was actually gone. Luckily, he was.

"That would be my father."

Oops. "Oh. Wow, shit, sorry. Um."

An eyebrow went up.

"So...that was Sarek?"

"Yes," Spock replied.

"Did your Mom come to Earth too?"

"My mother?"

Jim flushed again. "I, er, looked you up in the databases. Was interested. So, um, yeah. Your Mom being human and all, did she...come to Earth too?"

Spock looked distinctly unhappy for a moment before he schooled his expression again. "Affirmative. She is currently visiting her relatives in Toronto, Canada."

"Why aren't you visiting?" Jim asked, and they fell into step as they headed for the bar. "They're your relatives too."

"My mother's family were...vocal in their expression of displeasure at her marriage to a Vulcan," Spock replied smoothly. "I have had little to no contact with the majority of them. She is currently visiting my grandmother, whom I have never met."

That didn't sit too well with Jim. Okay, so his family wasn't exactly picture perfect either, but at least somebody had died to make that happen. His Mom ignored him a lot, and he'd had some pretty unpleasant stepfathers around, but on the whole it was okay. His grandparents lived in Australia now, but they were always comming him and calling and sending stuff. His other grandparents - the Kirk ones - were also dead, but he did vaguely remember them from his early childhood.

It hadn't been an _easy _childhood, but they'd loved him. And his Mom loved him, he knew. She was just...kind of bad at it.

"That doesn't seem right."

Spock said nothing.

"So what was your old man yelling at you for?"

"By Vulcan standards, he is not considered to be old..."

Jim waved it aside. "It means father."

"It is of no importance."

"Okay, whatever," Jim shrugged, bouncing up the steps to the bar area. "When are you all headed back to California?"

"In approximately eleven days," Spock replied.

"Awesome," Jim said. "You've just been working, haven't you? Instead of exploring?"

"There is little of interest in Iowa to..."

"Nope," Jim shook his head. "I got the perfect place to show you. Hey. You play chess?"

It was a stab in the dark, and he didn't even know if Vulcans _had _chess, but it was worth a shot. If they did have it, they were bound to play it all the time, right?

"Yes."

"Good," Jim grinned. "You free tonight?"

An eyebrow rose.

"Around ten? Uh, twenty-two-hundred?"

"...Affirmative."

"Meet me here," Jim said, and grinned. "And wear warm clothes."

That eyebrow, he considered, _had _to be getting tired by now.

Or maybe not.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes: This story is set in 2253, five years before the events of the film. This makes Spock twenty-three, and Jim twenty (according to the Star Trek Memory Alpha, anyway).**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek and I make no profit from this work.**

* * *

**The Stargazers**

**Five:**

It was McCoy who said the word first.

"Wait. Let me get this straight. You've got a date with a Vulcan?"

For once, Jim had deigned to use the videophone, as he was scurrying around his room getting ready - and he only realised that he was scurrying when McCoy said that word. The 'd' word. The one that he definitely wasn't doing.

"A date? Sure, whatever. Do Vulcans even date?"

"Hell if I know," McCoy said. "The way you keep blathering on about Vulcans, kid, I'm beginning to think I should sign up for that Vulcan xenobiology class. Not that the secretive pointy-eared bastards would give us enough to _teach _a xenobiology class."

Jim snickered. McCoy, he was rapidly learning, had colourful nicknames and insults for every species known to man. Including humans themselves. He was a living case of 'I'm not racist; I hate everyone equally'. Maybe Jim should be thankful he only seemed to call him 'kid' now and then.

"It's just some guided tourism," Jim shrugged. "I don't think the guy's all that happy with his lot in life."

"And you are?"

Jim ignored him.

"How would you be able to tell anyway?" McCoy demanded. "He's Vulcan. Nobody knows what they think. Ever."

"I just can," Jim shrugged, and grinned cheekily. "Call it a talent, maybe?"

McCoy snorted. "Whatever, kid. Speaking of talents, you free next month?"

"Next month? When and why?"

"First to the eleventh. The Academy's got some open days and shit. You should come."

Jim groaned.

"Just think about it, kid. You ain't gonna get anywhere sat in Iowa. Hell, I got further in the Deep South, damn it, and that place sure as hell hasn't changed in the last six hundred years or so. But Iowa? Iowa's so damn backwards it doesn't even know the _meaning _of backwards."

Jim laughed. Despite himself, the remark was funny. Who knew Southerners hated Iowans so much?

"Get yourself down to San-Fran and come to some of the demos and shit. Trust me, Jim, you'd probably score higher on an aptitude test than some of the jokers I got in my xenobiology classes. Never mind the pilot training simulators."

"Why do you take pilot training?"

"Requirement. Everyone takes PT101, and only security and certain sciences get to opt out of PT102. Pain in my ass, and I'm fast running outta nausea pills, but it has to be done. And trust me, kid, you'd run circles around some of these kids."

"How in the hell would you know if I'm clever enough to take on Academy cadets?"

"Cos I've talked to you, and I've talked to Academy cadets, and while you ain't top of the damn class, Jim, you sure as hell ain't gonna flunk some of this shit either. Just come down and have a look. It can't hurt you."

Jim frowned. "I'm not going into Starfleet."

"Then don't. Come see the Academy and bum around San-Fran for a bit. Hell, you might get to visit your Vulcan boyfriend while you're at it - you said he's coming back here in a week or so."

"He's not my _boyfriend_."

"I said 'Vulcan boyfriend', Jim, not 'boyfriend'. You need your ears cleaning out? Cos I got needles for that."

"Piss off."

McCoy snickered and raised his glass of...whatever. Maybe bourbon. Wow, that was an old guy's drink. How the fuck old _was _McCoy?

"I gotta get going," Jim said, deciding not to ask what he was drinking. "Haven't you got an exam in the morning?"

"Yeah. PT101. Why'd you think I'm drinking this damn early in the day?"

* * *

Then his Mom said the word, as Jim was making a beeline for the door.

"Where you going, Jimmy?"

"Just out," he replied evasively, and she narrowed her eyes.

"Oh no you don't, Jim. What are you up to?"

"Nothing," he insisted, suddenly feeling like he was sixteen and sneaking out to play doctor with Lindsay Miller up the lane. "Just going out to meet a friend."

"Oh," Winona said, then frowned. "A friend?"

"Yeah."

"What kind of friend?"

"A friend, Mom, Jesus. What other kinds of friends are there?"

"Are you..." his mother looked him up and down, and Jim squirmed uncomfortably. What was it with Moms and being able to make you feel like you were a snotty-nosed kid again? "Are you going on a _date_, Jim?"

"Christ, no! What is it with people and thinking I'm dating!"

Her eyebrows just then would've given Spock's a run for their money.

"No, Mom. Just meeting with a friend and showing him the joys - ah, cornfields - of Iowa."

The eyebrows went up again. "Why hasn't he seen Iowa before? Is he one of the cadets? Because last time you went around with cadets, you came back here in a police car with a broken nose, and..."

"He's _Vulcan_, Mom."

Winona stiffened, her hands tightening on her own folded arms, and she stared at him like he'd announced he was gay or something.

"Vulcan?" she asked.

"Yeah. You know. Vulcan. Vulcanoid. From the planet Vulcan. Descended from other Vulcans. Vulcan-Vulcan," he didn't want to sound so sarcastic, but her reaction had put him on the defensive. What the hell was wrong with talking to Vulcans? Was there some massive cultural taboo about talking to Vulcans that nobody had told him about?

"I...see," she said.

Jim shifted.

"Where...how did you meet a Vulcan? In Iowa?"

"At the 'port," Jim frowned. "Some Vulcan committee is looking at the Starfleet work and this guy kept coming to the bar. We got chatting. He's cool. What's the big deal?"

"Nothing," Winona said quickly, unfolding her arms and giving him an uncertain smile. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Go on. Get going, you don't want to be late for an appointment with a Vulcan, do you?"

Jim gave her a funny look, and let himself out.

* * *

The third person to use the word wasn't even talking to Jim.

She was, in fact, talking to Spock as Jim hurried towards the quiet bar, where Spock was waiting by the steps up to the bar area. And the cadet - in full cadet reds and everything, despite the late hour - was talking to him in earnest, hands fluttering around like she was Italian or something.

"I'm just saying, this isn't exactly _typical _behaviour for you..."

Jim studied her as he approached. He had the faint idea that she was the cadet doing translations the first time he'd seen the Vulcans. Long hair, dark skin, and a smoking body. Yeah, _hot _hot. Very hot. He wouldn't mind tapping a bit of that himself - then Spock's gaze shifted to include Jim in his vision, and Jim wiped the thought clean.

Were Vulcans telepaths or touch-telepaths? He honestly couldn't remember. And hell, what was a _half_-Vulcan?

"It sounds like a date to me," the girl said, and Jim cleared his throat. When she turned, not in the least bit surprised, he gave her a charming smile.

"That's because it's not a date," he said, "but I'm sure if you'd like one, I could free some time in my busy schedule."

A look of faint contempt washed over her face. Like most cadets, she was undeniably a bit stuck-up.

"Busy doing what?" she asked. "Having sex with farm animals?"

Spock's eyebrow jerked north on his face.

She turned back to the Vulcan, smoothly dismissing Jim (command track cadet, perhaps) and losing the condescending expression easily. "May I comm you in the morning? I have some questions about the linguistic structure of Surak's third scrolls."

Spock said something that Jim assumed was Vulcan, and also assumed was an affirmative and a farewall. He also raised his hand (and she responded) in that awkward gesture that Vulcans did all the time (and made Jim's hands hurt just _looking _at it) and then she was gone, clicking away across the quiet terminal like she owned the place.

"Who the hell was that? Another cadet?"

"Not yet," Spock said. "Uhura is taking xenolinguistics classes at the Academy, but has not enrolled for the full Starfleet training program as yet. She is technically not employed by or affiliated with Starfleet or the Federation in an official capacity."

"But she's wearing cadet reds."

"I believe her logic was that it helped her to 'fit in' within the class social environment."

Jim almost laughed at the way Spock put it - as if he was unsure of such logic himself, but didn't want to go so far as to outright question it. Hell, maybe that was it. Maybe Jim was better at this reading Vulcans lark that he was giving himself credit for.

"Well, xenolinguistics students aside," he said, and turned that megawatt grin on Spock. "Ready to discover the stars from Iowa?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes: This story is set in 2253, five years before the events of the film. This makes Spock twenty-three, and Jim twenty (according to the Star Trek Memory Alpha, anyway).**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek and I make no profit from this work.**

* * *

**The Stargazers**

**Six:**

About two miles (as the shuttlecraft flies) from Jim's home was a cornfield that had been rendered useless by overfarming decades ago. Rather than wait for the land to be useful again, it seemed that the locals at the time had turned it into a recreation area of sorts, building a playground and digging out rings for campfires and tents to be pitched upon.

In the decades - perhaps centuries - since, the local population had disappeared again and nature had taken over again. However, Jim had come along to explore it when he was ten or eleven years old, poking about in the wild for something to do and avoiding his mother's latest boyfriends, or his older brother's snide remarks about being a waster. What he had found had not been of much interest then - a cluster of lonely rocks jutting out of the long grass, wind-breaking shelters formed out of the man-moved earth, and crevices softened by grass and wildflowers.

What he had found, however, was that it was the perfect place to stargaze. The complete lack of light, coupled with those smooth crevices to lay in and be hidden from the wind, made for the perfect night stargazing and dreaming, and it was this view that he'd had in mind when he'd invited Spock out to join him.

Chess was just an accessory.

Jim had learned to play chess from Tom. Tom had been one of his mother's first boyfriends after George Kirk's death - some six years after the event. Jim hadn't minded Tom all that much - he'd been quiet, nice enough, and taught Jim to play chess. Unfortunately, Jim's mother was still too raw after her husband's death and the relationship was doomed from the start. Jim hadn't heard from Tom since, but he'd remembered those chess lessons.

But having not had an opponent in years, and never at all with any regularity, he was fairly convinced that the Vulcan was going to wipe the floor with him.

He took Spock home, to pick up the chess set and at least break him into the wide open expanse of Iowan countryside gently. Jim had no clue what the planet Vulcan was like, and he'd seen more than one tourist to the area get creeped out by the sheer _openness _of the land. And they were human.

"On the contrary," Spock had said, when Jim had inquired, "whilst the area of Vulcan in which I was raised is mountainous and rocky, I was frequently taken to visit cousins in Shi'Faal, which lies in a smoother geographic area. Flat land is quite familiar to me."

"Yeah?" Jim shrugged. "Fair enough. Still a change from San Francisco."

"Indeed."

He'd shown Spock around the small house, almost on a whim, and found himself vaguely amused by Spock's lack of comprehension as to the function of...well, almost everything. The fridge magnets, the photos on the walls, the rugs on the living room and hall floors, the posters to cover the plaster cracks in Jim's room.

"Would it not be more prudent to fix the plastering than to merely hide it?"

"I guess."

"Is it an attempt to keep your mother unaware of the damage?" Spock guessed, and Jim laughed.

"Not really," he said. "Pretty sure she knows."

Spock didn't actually _say _'then what's the point?' but even Jim could tell that he was thinking it. Or the Vulcan equivalent.

"Alright," Jim extracted a torch from the kitchen cupboard and kicked the back door open with his foot. "Ready?"

He just got a raised eyebrow.

* * *

Spock wiped the floor with him.

Four times in a row.

Never let it be said that Jim Kirk knew when he was beaten, after all.

His chess skills, he discovered, were still pretty okay. If he'd been playing another human. But either Spock was a genius, or Vulcans were _freaky _at chess. Which, considering the whole cultural thing about logic, was probably the case.

Whatever the reason, Jim got his ass handed to him. On a silver platter, complete with a raised eyebrows and a barely-there smirk.

"Why do I feel like I've been had?" Jim asked suspiciously.

Spock said nothing.

"Are you like a grandmaster or something?"

"Negative," Spock replied formally. After a pause, he added: "I ceased competing in tournaments before attaining grandmaster status."

"_Jesus_," Jim moaned.

Spock simply watched him. Jim got the impression that, despite the darkness, Spock could see him quite well. Jim had brought a lamp and a torch to keep the board lit and visible, but he could barely see his opponent - merely a glimmer of his eyes and the shadow of his silhouette across the board. He got the idea, though, that he was the only one with this impairment.

"How good is Vulcan night vision?" he asked, rescuing the felled pieces from the box and setting them up again.

"Poor," came the surprising response. "Human night vision is generally better."

"But...you can see me, right?"

"I have...unusually sharp night vision for a Vulcan," Spock's tone was clipped, and Jim got the point. Drop it. Fast.

"Fair enough," he said. "My Mom can't see for shit in the dark. She always falls over shit when she comes in, even if the upstairs lights are on."

Spock said nothing. He was turning Jim's captured king over and over in his hand, which was resting beside the board in an oddly casual gesture. After a moment, he tilted his head upwards to look at the stars.

Stars, when there was no light pollution at all, were always overwhelmingly bright to Jim. Out here, you could see the Milky Way cupping the Earth in its gaze, the glitter of far-off light almost in tune and hypnotising, but out-of-sync enough to hold your attention. Jim had wasted many nights out here, unable to tear his gaze away, and when Spock looked up, he did too.

And was lost, once again, in the vast expanse of space before him.

"It is...quite remarkable," Spock said softly.

Jim hummed an agreement. "Can you see Vulcan from here?"

"No. Not at this time of the Terran year."

"So what _can _you see?"

Jim's fascination with the stars was completely unacademic. He had never studied the constellations or the systems that could be seen from Iowa, not even those visible to the naked eye. He had merely watched the glittering haze and dreamed of silly dreams that were never going to be achieved.

So he listened with half an ear as Spock pointed out a couple of the Federation systems (and a couple of the neighbours that they liked to pretend didn't hate them), as well as the directions of those they couldn't see without a telescope, such as the edges of the Cardassian Empire.

"How do you know it all from here?" he asked. "Doesn't it look different from Vulcan?"

"Indeed, but I have studied star charts at the Embassy in California."

Jim lowered his gaze back to the Vulcan and frowned. "You really don't like diplomacy much, huh?"

"I have no preferences on the matter."

Jim hummed sceptically. "You could always change."

"That would be illogical," Spock said briskly.

"That's your answer for everything."

"Then what is yours, for adhering to a lifestyle that you do not seem to enjoy?" Spock asked, suddenly turning the tables, and Jim was taken aback with his blunt, forward behaviour. "I find that humans rarely cite logic among the influences of their decisions."

"I..."

Faced with that face, Jim found himself floundering, and he shrugged, a little angrily. Who did Spock think he was, anyway?

"McCoy wants me to go to to San-Fran, see the Academy. He's trying to persuade me to sign up."

"To?"

"Starfleet."

"Ah. And McCoy is...?"

"This medical cadet I met."

"I see," Spock was _definitely _performing a visual examination on Jim now. It was kind of creepy. "Then you do not wish to go?"

Jim frowned. "I didn't say..."

"Your reluctance speaks for itself," Spock replied. "You appear quite adamant that you belong here. Therefore, you cannot also be interested in joining Starfleet. One or the other must be false."

Jim fell silent.

"Based," Spock said slowly, "on your interest in astronomy, and your exhibition of natural curiosity into other beings and cultures, I am forced to conclude that it is, in fact, false that you hold a strong belief of belonging here."

Jim swallowed. He didn't much like the way this conversation was going.

"Isn't 'belonging' a bit emotional for Vulcans?" he tried.

"Negative," Spock said. "It is fact. Vulcans are biologically and psychically attached to their home-world. Many experience great problems when removed from the planet for any length of time; hence part of Vulcans' reluctance to experience long-term off-world exploration themselves. There are multiple theories that humans suffer the same problems, though for different reasons."

He fixed Jim with an unreadable look.

"Yet I somehow doubt you would suffer from such problems."

"You're saying I should take McCoy up on his suggestion, and go see?"

"It is always logical to keep alternate avenues open to oneself," Spock said flatly.

Well, hell. Check and mate, Mr. Spock.

"What about you?"

Spock raised an eyebrow.

"You're not keeping those avenues open."

"I am training in diplomacy, yet will be taking up a place at the Vulcan Science Academy upon my return to Vulcan. That, I believe, is very much 'keeping those avenues open'."

"Sure," Jim said, "just not the avenues that _you _want."

Spock was still rotating the captured king in his hand, Jim noted, but he didn't understand the significance of the action.

Check, but not checkmate.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes: This story is set in 2253, five years before the events of the film. This makes Spock twenty-three, and Jim twenty (according to the Star Trek Memory Alpha, anyway).**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek and I make no profit from this work.**

* * *

**The Stargazers**

**Seven:**

San Francisco was...damn big.

Jim was by no means a shy man - he was brimming over with genuine confidence in most areas of his life. Sure, he had the odd insecurity - who didn't? - but he'd turned out pretty well.

San Francisco, though, was bigger than Jim had possibly imagined.

And if he thought that San Francisco was kind of intimidating, the Academy was a hell of a lot worse.

They just didn't _have _swanky buildings in his ass-end of Iowa. They were all wooden little lean-to jobs, not swirls of concrete and marble and silicon, with various designs from the Tellarite and Betazoid cultures on the doors to the language school. Hell, Jim wasn't sure if there _was _a language school nearer to him than Des Moines itself - and Des Moines had been near-dead for the last eighty years.

McCoy had dumped him off with a tour group, saying something about having clinics and coming to get Jim later, in a way that reminded Jim distinctly of someone's mom dropping her kid off at school for the first time. Maybe McCoy _had _a kid. He was old enough - and hadn't he muttered something about an ex-wife once?

One of the other wannabes, in too-smart trousers and a jumper (that reminded Jim strongly of the oddly plain-but-formal way that Spock dressed) was recognisable, and it took Jim a while to place her. Eventually, he realised that she was the woman who'd been translating for the Vulcan diplomats the other week in Riverside, and he grinned.

Well, she was hot even without that tiny regulation skirt. Nice.

Pity he couldn't remember her name.

She didn't give him a second glance throughout the whole tour, aptitude tests (he nearly backed out, but figured what the hell) or even when they showed the same interest in the xenolinguistics building. Jim reassessed her: command and communications. He still couldn't tell which specialism she'd hunt for, though.

Until she asked about Vulcan.

"Of course we teach Vulcan," the guide said, "but as there aren't any Vulcans serving in Starfleet, there won't be the same cultural component as the other language courses. It's more challenging without it, but we teach useable Vulcan. You can do in-depth courses on Vulcan itself if you take the science specialisms, thanks to the VSA, but not here."

She didn't look all that interested in that, but Jim pricked up his ears at the mention. Wasn't that where Spock was going?

"Of course," the guide continued, "if you take Romulan to a high level, you'll be able to pick up Vulcan pretty quickly just through the news media and online learning. They're still very similar languages."

The cadet looked like she highly disagreed, there, and Jim smirked. Communications. Easy.

"If we're all done here, the next stop is the flight simulations suites..."

Oh _hell _yes.

* * *

The moment McCoy looked at him, he smirked.

"What?" Jim asked.

"It's got you," McCoy said smugly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Told you it would."

Jim flushed. "I'm not signing up."

"Sure," McCoy drawled. "Until they send you your aptitude test results, with the letter of recommendation. Because you'll ace those - freaky kid like you, you'll do good."

Jim scowled. "Just because..."

"Trust me," McCoy interrupted. "I've done my psychomatic training, and I know what I'm looking for. And trust me, kid, you got it. You're what they're after."

"I'm a dumb hick from Iowa."

"Maybe that's what they need," McCoy shrugged. "I'll be level with you, Jim. Most of the cadets here, they're smart. Super smart, scary smart. Even I think they're geniuses, and I'm a damn doctor. I know a genius when I see one. But they're predictable. Vulcans exhibit more crazy-ass behaviour than some of these kids, and while that's damn good in research and sciences and, hell, even basic engineering and mechanic maintenance...that's not a communications specialist. Or research engineers. Or command. In command, that's damn suicidal. You need some out-of-the-box thinking, and you got that."

Jim snorted. "Yeah, but..."

"Don't you 'but' me," McCoy snapped, jabbing a finger into Jim's chest. "You know I'm right."

Jim hesitated. "Look, on the command front, maybe, but..."

McCoy cut him off, yet again, "Even your Vulcan..."

"He's not my Vulcan."

"Even _your Vulcan_," McCoy stressed again, "told you this was a good idea. Didn't he?"

Jim blinked. "How did you know that?"

"Come on, kid. I know damn well it wasn't _my _persuasive charms that got your ass all the way out here."

Jim rolled his eyes and snorted. "Come on, McCoy. If even he said it was a good idea, that doesn't mean..."

"Of course it means it's a good idea," McCoy interrupted flatly. "You know anything about Vulcans apart from what I told you, kid?"

"Not much."

"Then trust me on this. He's not going to spin you some line about following your dreams and using all your abilities and yada yada yada. Vulcans _don't _dream. Metaphorically or literally. They're too damn logical for that - and he's not going to tell you to chase yours. If he says it's a good idea, he's talking pragmatically. And he said it was a good idea."

"And _how _do you know that he said that?"

"I didn't," McCoy grinned. "Lucky shot."

* * *

Jim spent the rest of his time in San Francisco hitting the bars with McCoy (though, thankfully, his sneakers remained puke-free) and trying to hit on the female cadets. The city was _crawling _with the cadets, both on and off campus, and they stuck out like sore thumbs. About a tenth of the cadets were aliens, and a good seventy percent of the human ones were not only non-American, but didn't have a fantastic command of Standard either.

Hence 'trying.'

He stayed a week, camping out on McCoy's sofa (medical students got _good _digs!) and eating his food. Which was disgustingly healthy - to the point where Jim seriously considered going hungry. He hadn't eaten so many vegetables since he was about five and his grandmother had come to live with them for a year.

If not for the liberal amounts of good booze, he'd be seriously rethinking this friendship.

Eventually, though, Jim packed himself back onto the shuttle to Riverside, ready to get back to his barkeeping and his motorbike. He slept most of the trip, didn't remember his dreams, and staggered off the shuttle to no welcoming committee and an annoyed glower from the only other passenger on the whole damn ship.

Well, screw you too, lady.

He caught sight of the grey-haired Vulcan that had been speaking to Spock - his father, was it? Jim was too tired to remember - on his way out of the terminal, and gave him a deliberately cheery wave.

The look he got in return was exactly as blank as he'd expected.

The ride home was dark and dreary. In the wake of California, the road was lonely and too cool, and the dark house that Jim pulled up to smacked of isolation and a meagre existence. He could almost hear McCoy asking what it was he liked about Riverside - or even Iowa in general.

The hollow clunk of his keys in the lock even sounded like the doctor putting down that bottle of bourbon on the coffee table in his apartment.

_God_, Jim needed to sleep.

So badly that he stepped right over the letter, stamped with the Starfleet insignia, lying on the mat, and didn't see it until the morning.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes: First, some apologies. I will try to get back to 'Void' and I am fully aware that the delay has been unacceptable. As is my lack of any updates whatsoever in the last month and more. In my defence, meagre as it is, I will admit, however, to having been disgustingly ill for the last few weeks. On top of emergency dental surgery. 'Knocked on your ass' doesn't even begin to cover it. I am happy to announce that I am starting to feel human (without the aid of drugs) again and have dutifully passed on my disease to the other hapless members of the household.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek 2009, and I make no profit from this work.**

* * *

**The Stargazers**

**Eight:**

It was Spock's last night in Iowa, and even to Jim's inexperienced eye, the Vulcan looked tired, but he'd agreed to meet Jim in the town regardless, though he hadn't looked remotely surprised when Jim gave him the letter.

"McCoy was right," Jim said flatly, sinking into the chair opposite Spock's and waving at the paper now in the Vulcan's hand. "I passed the aptitude tests."

"Remarkably well."

Jim raised an eyebrow. "I can't believe you've interpreted that table of..._stuff _that fast."

Starfleet Academy might have an impressive track record and high graduate-employment rate, but their data presentation skills left a little to be desired.

"The test layouts are based on a similar type of aptitude test used by the Vulcan Science Academy," Spock replied. "Much of the logical reasoning exam is an exact replica of the VSA tests."

Jim swallowed. "So...so what do I do now?"

"Judging by your previous behaviour on this issue, you will simply ignore the letter and return to your normal daily activities," Spock said, handing back the paper in an almost disinterested fashion. "You will disregard advice - they make note of this tendency in your psychomatic tests, by the way - and stick to your beliefs."

"Sticking to your guns isn't a bad thing," Jim said defensively.

Spock didn't reply.

Jim ran both hands through his hair and chewed on his lip. "And if...if I was going to...take them up...on it?"

Spock cocked his head. "I am afraid I do not understand the question."

"What if I were to...accept the offer?"

Spock blinked. He clearly still wasn't quite grasping Jim's actual question. "Then...there would be, doubtless, more tests, and documents that you would have to provide. I cannot judge whether you would be successful without much more data."

Jim shrugged. That hadn't been his real question, but he let it slide. "What about Iowa?"

"You do not seem to care much for Iowa, if I may be so bold."

Jim snorted. "Who does?"

Spock opened his mouth, but Jim waved the response off.

"No, don't. Just me bein' an ass. But I'd have to go to 'Cisco pretty soon. Medical exams, and proper exams, and all that sort of shit. It's...it's kind of soon. Y'know?"

"If it were soon, would you be inclined to move at all?"

Jim was brought up short. "What?"

"I have spent my time on Earth observing humans, and I have noted that many are disinclined to act upon something until - or unless - the window of opportunity is very close to expiring. If given the chance to debate, many will return to less-preferred options despite the opportunity to change their situations."

For someone whose knowledge of Standard slang was pretty abysmal and outdated, Spock was sure observant. It made Jim squirm slightly, and he wasn't sure whether to be pissed or amused when he noticed that not only did Spock not really require an answer, but seemed to find his discomfort somehow _funny_.

"And I suppose Vulcans don't have those flaws?" he challenged.

"Of course not," came the predictable reply. "If we see a favourable opportunity, we will naturally take it."

Jim felt sceptical about that, but he wasn't sure why.

* * *

For all that his conversation with Spock went well, the conservation with his mother...well. Didn't.

"What was this?" she asked, the moment he was in the door that evening, waving the empty envelope at him. The Starfleet stamp glistened on the front, and she had her lips pursed. "Not more crap about...about anniversaries or anything?"

It was a fair assumption, he supposed. The last mail either of them had received from Starfleet (apart from Winona's regular military pension letter) had been blathering on about the twentieth anniversary of the _Kelvin_. Jim had just thrown it away; his mother had burst into tears, and left for a week the next morning.

(He suspected she'd actually gone, but had never dared to ask.)

"It was, um."

"Nothing to do with your trip to California, was it?" she asked coolly.

She wasn't stupid. Neither Winona nor George Kirk had been stupid - and Jim supposed that was why they were here. They hadn't had stupid kids either. And if he'd been stupid, they wouldn't be having this conversation.

"Yeah," he said, shrugging and swallowing. "It was...I went to visit the Academy. Starfleet Academy. A friend talked me into it, so I figured looking around wouldn't hurt. Proper tour and shit. They, uh. They wanted us to do some aptitude tests, and the results came last night. I only opened it this morning."

She was turning the envelope over and over in her hands, staring at the table. For a long moment, there was silence, until she said, "You're not going, of course."

Jim's rebellious streak sneered.

"What makes you say that?" he challenged.

She frowned, but didn't yet look up. "You've got a perfectly good life here. And anyway, you've never responded well to authority. Starfleet's military, Jim, they won't take your attitude kindly. You'll have to learn to toe the line."

His brain stopped listening at _good life here_, and the rebellious streak sneered again. Along with the bullshit-o'-meter. "Good life? Mom, I work bars and I'm not going anywhere."

The frown deepened, and she finally looked up. "It's never bothered you before. It's an honest living. Decent. Safe."

"Safe," Jim echoed flatly. "Yeah, safe. That's the point, isn't it, Mom? _Safe_. You see safe, I see...bored. You won't catch me telling them this, but McCoy and Spock are _right_. I can do better than Riverside."

"Then do it, but _space_, Jimmy?"

"Yeah, space. Everyone else went into space, and..."

"And look what happened," Winona snapped bitterly. "Space took your father away from us, Jim. Space took Sam away..."

"Sam's not _dead_, Mom, he's..."

"Not coming back, is what he is," Winona interrupted. "Neither of us have seen him since he left Earth, and mark my words, Jim, neither of us will again. He's not coming back."

"That's nothing to do with space, Mom."

Winona scowled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know what it means," Jim snapped. By this point, he was usually winding down, too used to fighting with her and too tired to rehash it all. But now, watching her shred the paper insignia between her fingers, and the weight of his results in his jacket pocket, his temper was rising further. Like the old days.

Like when Frank had been around.

"Enlighten me," she said coldly, sounding so much like Jim himself it was eerie.

"He's not coming back because of _this_!" Jim shouted. "We're a fucked-up family, Mom, _that's _what happened! And it wasn't space, it was _you_. It was you and your grief, and I _get _that, Mom, I get it! You lost your husband, I _get it_! But Sam lost a father and I never had one, and you punished _us _for that! Maybe space took Dad away, but _you _did the rest! Space didn't need to fucking _help_!"

She flinched like he'd slapped her, and rose from the kitchen table in one fluid motion.

"James Tiberius Kirk, I will _not_..."

"I don't care what you won't have me say under your roof," Jim snapped bitterly, delving into his pocket. He tore the results from the acceptance letter, and threw the former at her in a childish fit of temper. "There. Have them. I won't fucking need them."

Before she had the opportunity to reply, he stormed up the creaky stairs and slammed into his room, dust shivering down from the eaves of the roof from the force of the door.

* * *

The next morning, Leonard McCoy was disturbed in the middle of brushing his teeth by the shrill whistle of his comm unit. Some smartass at the clinic had reprogrammed it to emit a high-pitched naval whistle whenever he received a message, and it was driving him up the wall. Right after he got Alison-Next-Door to fix it, he was going to hunt the sorry bastard down with the biggest hypospray he could find.

And he had a pretty good of who it was, too.

Cursing through the foam, he opted to finish his morning routine before answering it. It was probably just - oh. Never mind. It wasn't Anderson, it was that Iowan kid.

McCoy frowned.

_On the first shuttle to SanFran. Can I crash on your couch? Kind of last minute decision._

McCoy wasn't an expert on Kirk, particularly, but he knew terse, upset messages when he saw them. And he knew the significance - at least in his own life - of the phrase 'last minute decision.'

Kicked out, or walked out.

And he didn't know which one to bet on.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes: Unbelievably, I'm ill again. Seriously. This is getting ridiculous. *headdesk* This is also the last chapter. There'll be a sequel, obviously, but I felt it clearer to split the series up into separate stories.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek 2009, and I make no profit from this work.**

* * *

**The Stargazers**

**Nine:**

Technically, San Francisco didn't have its own shuttleport. The 'port was at Los Angeles - but the two cities hadn't really been separate places for a long time, and the monorails meant that nobody really cared where _anything _was anymore.

Los Angeles or San Francisco, the shuttleport was designed for intergalactic space travel. Every shuttle coming to Earth landed in Los Angeles, Beijing, Paris or Johannesburg - and then most global aeroplanes and shuttles went through Los Angeles to travel between continents as well. All in all? It was _huge_.

Honestly, Jim felt swamped.

The group of chattering Andorians by the arrivals gate hadn't fazed him, nor the swarms of younger humans in cadet reds _everywhere_. Not even the announcements designed specially _for _the Academy students, or the continual loop of announcements in grating Vulcan and high-pitched Tellarite.

It was the space.

Or the lack thereof.

The Riverside 'port was spaceous, but optimistically so. It was always open and bare. This place was even bigger, but _packed_. Wall to wall, people (human and alien) surged from point to point apparently aimlessly, and largely without regard for others. From the gate, Jim could see a group of Tellarite literally pushing people out of the way (and probably complaining loudly the whole time); an Andorian at the Information Desk was employing the more subtle human tactic of elbows and apologies.

The chatter of _language _was unfamiliar as well. Any alien passing through Iowa spoke Standard. All Iowans spoke Standard - albeit an oddly drawled version. Jim had simply never really heard any other language fluently spoken in front of him before - never mind all around him. The Standard was mixed in with...well, Jim didn't even know what. Some of the humans were speaking in their regional non-Standard languages; some were speaking languages he was _fairly _sure were alien; some of the aliens were doing both.

"Hey, kid! _JIM_!"

His head snapped around, in time to see McCoy elbow sharply past a frumpy-looking woman in purple and clap a hand on his shoulder.

"Finally. Goddamnit, kid, you ever think of giving a guy a _time _to go on. I had no damn clue when you were getting here, and trust me, the coffee in this 'port ain't worth _shit_."

* * *

They didn't talk about it until that evening, after McCoy lost an argument over takeout, and won the argument that _no_, Kirk wasn't sharing his bed with him, he would sleep on the couch, _damnit_.

Then Jim had shrugged and said, "Thanks, man," and they'd talked about it.

"What made you change your mind?"

Jim shrugged. "Mom, kinda. I mean...you and Spock said some stuff too but Mom...she didn't think I could do it. Should do it."

"Rub you the wrong way?"

Jim squinted at him. "You don't seem surprised."

McCoy shrugged. "I'm not _that _old. I know you tell a kid - specially a kid like you - that they can't, they'll just go ahead and do it. I mean, hell, it wasn't my career that it was over, but I did the same thing."

Jim cocked his head.

McCoy shrugged again. "Ma told me marrying Jocelyn was a bad idea. Didn't listen; did it anyway."

Jim almost - _almost _- congratulated him - and then remembered their first conversation. "Didn't you guys, uh, split up?"

"Yeah."

"So...I'm fucked?"

McCoy snorted. "Kid, you're going into space. _I'm _going into space. We're _both _fucked."

Jim snorted, grinned, and that was that.

* * *

The Vulcan Embassy was not far from the Starfleet Academy, and almost a month after Jim had settled into the couch at McCoy's place, he went Spock-hunting there.

Being not-purpose built, the Embassy looked like every other bog-standard glass tower in the city, but the interior was heated to a ridiculous degree, covered in reddish-brown decorations, and silent as the proverbial grave. Jim was also fairly sure the squeaking his sneakers were making on the floor just advertised his mental incompetence to the severe Vulcan woman behind the desk, _watching _him approach.

"Er, hi," he leaned over the desk; her face didn't twitch. "I'm looking for Spock."

One eyebrow twitched. So it _was _a Vulcan thing.

"Erm, son of Sarek."

The eyebrow twitched again. "I am aware. Have you an appointment?"

"Nooooot as such, no," he laughed nervously. "Do I need one? It's, erm..."

Jesus, she was intimidating as fuck. And Jim had never been intimidated by a pretty girl before. (And she _was _pretty, with those dark eyes and perfectly plucked eyebrows and that stern haircut. Very pretty, in a dominatrix kind of way.)

"Your name?"

"Jim Kirk."

She clacked away at her computer for a moment later, before rising. "Follow me."

To his surprise, the woman led him up two flights of stairs (and it was not fair that Vulcans should be able to climb stairs so gracefully) and through two heavy, dark doors, before he found himself in a small office with large windows, a view of the bay, and Spock rising from a chair behind an impressively large desk.

"T'Pre," he nodded to the woman, who returned the nod and promptly left, shutting the door behind her. Spock's dark eyes were mildly curious as they turned to Jim, and he grinned.

"Surprise?"

"...Indeed. I am to understand, then, that you accepted Starfleet's offer?"

Jim shrugged. "Well. Yeah. Thought I might as well, y'know. Get out of Iowa."

Jim knew that _Spock _knew that he wasn't quite telling the truth there, but the Vulcan didn't question it. "Is this a social visit?"

"Mostly, sure."

"Then, would you care for some tea?"

"Ah, no thanks," Jim did help himself to the seat opposite Spock's lounge, leaning on the wooden desktop idly, and watching Spock prepare himself some tea. "So, you back doing basic paper-pushing here for your old man?"

"...Indeed."

"How long?"

"I will most probably return to Vulcan on the first of December. My application to the Vulcan Science Academy requires me to attend certain tests and interviews at that time."

"You still going ahead with that, huh?" Jim asked.

"Indeed."

"Shame," Jim said. "I liked playing chess with you."

Spock quirked an eyebrow at him as he sat down in his chair again.

"Feel like a game now?"

"I cannot spare the time."

"Well, how 'bout later? I'm crashing at a buddy's house and he's out wooing some girl tonight, so come over," Jim gave Spock his most winning smile, and the Vulcan's lips twitched minutely again.

"I...shall see, Jim."

Jim grinned. "Yeah, good enough, I guess. I mean, you got a job and I don't."

He slapped the desk as he got up - earning himself an inscrutable look - and headed for the door.

"And, Jim?"

"Yeah?" he turned.

Spock didn't smile - in fact, his face was even more impassive than ever - but the words nearly floored Jim, then and there in the Vulcan Embassy.

"I am...glad that you changed your mind."

**END**

**(for the moment)**


End file.
